My appointment was canceled.
The psychological evaluation. The one that's supposed to confirm what I've been trying to tell these people for a year and a half. My first step towards an ounce of actual support from these people. For eighteen months they've sat me down in little rooms and asked me questions and taken notes and had me fill out questionnaire after identical questionnaire. And now, when they were finally taking the big step towards an official diagnosis, my appointment is canceled.
She was sick, of course. There's always a reason. Or at least, an excuse.
I'm sick too. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of sitting on my hands and waiting for the people whose job it is to help people like me to get off their asses and do something. I'm sick of people forgetting things and not talking to each other. I'm sick of no one asking any of the right questions. I'm sick of missing classes just to sit in cars and waiting rooms, report no change (shitty as always) and schedule the next appointment. I'm sick of people who have no idea what my needs are. I'm sick of words of encouragement but no words of comfort. I'm sick of people refusing to acknowledge when I have problems. I'm sick of being misunderstood.
I'm sick of love. I'm sick of a family who gives me endless reasons to hide myself. I'm sick of having to earn concern. I'm sick of waiting for reaffirmation of love like a hungry puppy suckling at her dead mother. I'm sick of planning my life around someone else's schedule. I'm sick of overwhelming ignorance and insensitivity from the people I thought I could trust. I'm sick of having to see the people who've hurt me every day. I'm sick of my patronizing mother. I'm sick of being ignored when I'm in distress. I'm sick of having no one to hold my hand. I'm sick of being alienated from everyone I open up to. I'm sick of people avoiding talking about me. I'm sick of my God picking me apart. I'm sick of people not telling me what they really think. I'm sick of being so low on peoples' lists of priorities. I'm sick of people leaving me without saying goodbye.
I'm sick of this world. I'm sick of this redundant school system. I'm sick of the power struggles and incompetence. I'm sick of the arrogance of humanity. I'm sick of never being able to trust anyone. I'm sick of the arbitrary rules. I'm sick of the ignorance and the deception. I'm sick of people who still haven't learned to think for themselves. I'm sick of the false prophets. I'm sick of the closed-mindedness. I'm sick of people.
I'm sick of the voices. I'm sick of never being able to agree on anything. I'm sick of constantly being lost and alone and afraid. I'm sick of never being able to share my world with anyone. I'm sick of depth. I'm sick of being tormented. I'm sick of the doubts and the second-guessing. I'm sick of knowing when I'm lying to myself. I'm sick of the deception and the memories. I'm sick of seeing monsters. I'm sick of the scars no one else can see. I'm sick of the pain. I'm sick of looking in mirrors and seeing a monster. I'm sick of waiting for myself to snap and kill something.
I'm sick of being me. And everything that comes with it.
And they wonder why I'd choose death. If only that were an option. I wish.
When they ask me if I'm suicidal, I always say no. What I mean is, not yet.
1 comment:
I can't think of much anything to say, so I'll let some other smart lady say speak for me. It's from a story that's taking place in a doctor's office. Just... came to mind. Feels right. Captures the mood, I think.
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The girl continued to stare and pointedly did not answer.
Her mother blushed at this rudeness. "The lady asked you a question, Mary Grace," she said under her breath.
"I have ears," Mary Grace said.
The poor mother blushed again. "Mary Grace goes to Wellesley College," she explained. She twisted one of the buttons on her dress. "In Massachusetts," she added with a grimace. "And in the summer she just keeps right on studying. Just reads all the time, a real book worm. She's done really well at Wellesley; she's taking English and Math and History and Psychology and Social Studies," she rattled on, "and I think it's too much. I think she ought to get out and have fun."
The girl looked as if she would like to hurl them all through the plate glass window.
"Way up north," Mrs. Turnpin murmured and thought, well, it hasn't done much for her manners.
"I'd almost rather to have him sick," the white-trash woman said, wrenching attention back to herself. "He's so mean when he ain't. Look like some children just take natural to meanness. It's some gets bad when they get sick but he was the opposite. Took sick and turned good. He don't give me no trouble now. It's me waitin to see the doctor," she said.
If I was going to send anybody back to Africa, Mrs. Turnpin thought, it would be your kind, woman. "Yes, indeed," she said aloud, but looking up at the ceiling, "it's a heap of things worse than a nigger." And dirtier than a hog, she added to herself.
"I think people with bad dispositions are more to be pitied than anyone on earth," the pleasant lady said in a voice that was decidedly thin.
"I thank the Lord he has blessed me with a good one," Mrs. Turnpin said. "The day has never dawned that I couldn't find something to laugh at."
"Not since she married me, anyways," Claud said with a comical straight face.
Everybody laughed except the girl and the white-trash.
Mrs. Turpin's stomach shook. "He's such a caution," she said, "that I can't help but laugh at him."
The girl made a loud ugly noise through her teeth.
Her mother's mouth grew tight and thin. "I think the worst thing in the world," she said, "is an ungrateful person. To have everything and not appreciate it. I know a girl," she said, "who has parents who would give anything, a little brother who loves her dearly, who is getting a good education, who wears the best clothes, but who can never say a kind word to anyone, who never smiles, who just criticizes and complains all day long."
"Is she too old to paddle?" Claud asked.
The girl's face was almost purple.
"Yes," the lady said, "I'm afraid there's nothing to do but leave her to her folly. Some day she'll wake up and it'll be too late."
"It never hurt anyone to smile," Mrs. Turnpin said. "It just makes you feel better all over."
"Of course," the lady said sadly, "but there are just some people you can't tell anything to. They can't take criticism."
"If it's one thing I am," Mrs. Turnpin said with feeling, "it's grateful. When I think who all I could have been besides myself and what all I got, a little of everything, and a good disposition besides, I just feel like shouting, 'Thank you, Jesus, for making everything the way it is!' It could have been different!" For one thing, somebody else could have got Claud. At the thought of this, she was flooded with gratitude and a terrible pang of joy ran through her. "Oh thank you, Jesus, Jesus, thank you!" she cried aloud.
The book struck her directly over her left eye. It struck almost at the same instant that she realized the girl was about the hurl it. Before she could utter a sound, the raw face came crashing across the table toward her, howling. The girl's fingers sank like clamps in the soft flesh of her neck...
The girl raised her head. Her gaze locked with Mrs. Turnpin's. "Go back to hell where you came from, you old wart hog," she whispered.
- Flannery O'Connor
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